Drabbles
by sliz225
Summary: My personal dumping ground for all my NCIS drabbles.  Fluffy/funny/totally plotless.  Suggestions welcome!
1. All Nighters

(**A/N: Loosely set during "Ships in the Night." A series of . . . somethings . . . about a time when the team is pulling an all-nighter.**)

"I need coffee," groaned Tony.

"Didn't we ask McGee to run and get coffee almost ten minutes ago?" wondered Ziva, yawning widely.

"_Twenty_ minutes," Tony corrected.

"You don't think he tried to drive to the coffee shop, did he?" worried Ziva. "He could have passed out and crashed."

"No! Now we'll never get coffee," moaned Tony.

Ziva glared.

"I mean, I'll go look for him," he added, jumping up. He didn't have to go far. The elevator doors opened to reveal McGee slumped in a corner of the tiny compartment, slumbering peacefully. When the doors _dinged_, McGee jumped.

"Gah! Are we on the first floor yet?" He rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Tony? What are you doing?"

"Waking you up, McGeek. You fell asleep on the floor of the elevator. You went for coffee _a half hour ago_."

"Oh."

""

"Come on! No sleeping at work!" Gibbs cried, surveying his dozing team.

"It's—" _yawn_ "—nine o'clock. In the morning," Tony muttered.

"Exactly. It's not that early."

"It's early if you _didn't go home last night!_" snarled Ziva under her breath.

"Everyone needs to sleep at their desk once in their life. It's a life experience. You can rest when you're dead," said Gibbs briskly.

"We didn't sleep at our desks. We. Didn't. SLEEP!" snapped McGee, lifting his head from the file he had been using as a pillow.

"Hmm. Alright. One nap. Twenty minutes."

Their heads made three identical thuds as they hit their desks.

""

"Is that . . . safe?"

"I don't know. How much caffeine can a human ingest before it becomes dangerous?"

"How many Caf-Pow cups does she _have_?"

"Oh no. There's even more cups in the trash can."

"Even _more_? How is that possible?"

"Note to self: stay away from Abby until her caffeine wears off."

"Which will be . . . when? In a few hundred years?"

"Yikes."

"I know."


	2. Getting Used To

" . . . I swear, he was like that sergeant from Forrest Gump," Tony went on, giving his best drill sergeant imitation. "_You might not be a Marine, but while you are on my boat, I will treat you like—_"

Tony froze, realizing the Marines he was chatting with were staring at him in shock. "He's standing right behind me, isn't he," Tony sighed, automatically head slapping himself.

"No-oo . . ." said a petty officer, staring at Tony like he lost his mind. "There's nobody behind you. We're just not used to new recruits making fun of commanding officers."

"And we're _really_ not used to new recruits slapping themselves on the back of the head," pointed out another petty officer, looking concerned. "Look, there's an on-board psychologist if you need help . . ."

"No! I just—I was—my old boss—" Tony sighed, giving up. "Never mind."

""

"It's good to have you back, Agent David," Ziva's commanding officer told her briskly.

"It's good to be back, sir," said Ziva wearily, trying to put some fake cheer into her morose voice.

"What?"

"I said, _it's good to be—_"

"In _Hebrew_, please, Agent David!" her CO snapped, and Ziva realized with a start that she had automatically spoken in English.

"It's good to be back—" she began again in Hebrew, but her commanding officer was already striding from the room.

"It seems you have a lot to relearn, Agent David," he said coldly.

_And even more to forget_, Ziva thought, but did not say.

""

"Boss, I finished tracing the identity thief's credit card statements," announced one of the lab coat wearing techies—McGee hadn't learned all their names yet.

"And I hacked into his email!" cried another, looking up from his consul.

"I've got into his main server, Boss," McGee called.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Uhh . . . you _are_ the Boss, Agent McGee," a techie informed him.

"Me? But I'm not . . ." McGee trailed off. _I'm not Gibbs_. That was his automatic reaction.

He _wasn't_ Gibbs, but Gibbs wasn't his boss anymore, either.

He wasn't sure he liked that.

""

Gibbs hesitated at the elevator call button.

The very fact that he hesitated was most unlike him. Gibbs was not the sort of person to hesitate, especially not at elevator doors. There were several interns, in fact, with bruised shoulders who could attest that Gibbs sternly disliked those who hesitated at elevator doors and got in his way.

But still, he hesitated. He had this sudden vision, this picture in his head. A moment before he pressed the button, he anticipated his former team standing in the elevator, precisely as he expected them.

McGee, receiving hand-to-hand combat tips from Ziva, or being picked on by Tony. Tony, bemoaning some romantic misadventure to an unsympathetic Ziva, or teasing McGee, who was pretending to be angry. Ziva, flirting with Tony, or asking McGee with help with her PC.

But that was impossible. As of last week, his old team was dissolved, replaced by a brand new group. A fresh mental image formed, this one of what he would likely find if he pressed the elevator's call button. Langer taunting Keating, and Keating being genuinely hurt by his words. Lee interceding in a vague, nervous way, her dislike of confrontation keeping her from getting too involved. Keating was pretending not to notice Langer, ignoring him and absorbing himself in his new Blackberry.

He dropped his hand from the elevator button. Maybe—just until old memories faded, of course—he would take the stairs.

This would take some getting used to.


	3. Eli

**(A/N: Oops! I broke my own rule, and gave this story something resembling a plot. Not my best work, but hey. Set during Enemies Domestic, when Ziva and Eli are forced to work together. I figured that the entire squad would dislike Eli, since he abandoned their friend . . .)**

Eli David frowned as he looked over the bustling NCIS headquarters. Tony tapped his eyelids and pointed at Eli, say _I've got my eye on you_ as clearly as if he had spoken. McGee glared at Eli as he slipped past on his way to the copier. Gibbs pointedly ignored him. Even Abby gave her best approximation of threatening stare as she passed.

"Why are your coworkers angry with me?" Eli asked Ziva in an undertone. She barely glanced up from the file on her desk.

"Hmm?"

"Your coworkers. They are giving me the—what do you call it? Furry eye?" he said softly.

"Hairy eye," said Ziva wearily, for even her limited knowledge of American idioms was superior to her father's, "and that's a terribly outdated expression."

"But why? Why do they seem so . . . _hostile . . . _every time I interact with them?" he prodded.

"Well, you did send me to die in a desert," she pointed out, still absorbed in the file she was perusing.

"Then by all rights, _you_ should be angry with me, and _they_ should be indifferent," Eli said.

For the first time, Ziva looked up. "You don't get it? Really? They're my friends. They're angry at _you _because you hurt _me_." She returned to her work. "It's that simple."

"No," said her father softly. "It's really not."


	4. Working Together

"McGeek! Do you have those—those . . ." asked Tony, fumbling for words.

"The old case files you asked for? Right here," McGee responded, tossing him the pertinent files. "Say, did you every finish the—"

"Got 'em," Tony said, handing him some witness statements to review.

McGee frowned at the papers. "You didn't finish these! Ziva, I need a—"

She tossed him the stapler he wanted. "McGee, I'm having trouble with my stupid PC again," she complained. "What should I—?"

"Alt-F4," he suggested without looking up.

Gibbs looked over his team from his desk. "Do you three ever get the sense you've been working together too long?"

"No. Why?" they asked in unison.

"Oh, nothing."


	5. Option

"So—we'll meet Friday, at the Le Bistro? Eight o'clock?" confirmed Abby into her phone. "Sounds great! I'll see you then, Phil."

"Who was that?" demanded McGee, standing frozen in the doorway, clutching the evidence bags he was dropping off. "I hadn't heard about a new boyfriend."

"He's not my new boyfriend!" Abby cried, snapping her phone shut and whirling around. "Ooh, are those the bullet fragments?"

"Don't change the subject," ordered McGee, handing her the bag. "Of course they're the bullet fragments. Who's the guy you're meeting?"

"He's nobody, McGee. Stop being nosy," complained Abby, busying herself with the new evidence.

"You don't meet 'nobody' for dinner," insisted McGee. "Spill."

Abby sighed. "Alright, but only because you insisted. He's a headhunter, okay?"

"You're meeting with a headhunter? Abby, you can't—"

"I'm not _leaving_, McGee," sighed Abby firmly, rolling her eyes. "I'm not going to abandon my family! I just love being taken out to dinner and being told how awesome I am. Headhunters always try to take me to fancy restaurants—to prove how rich everyone who works for their company is, or something."

"This has happened before? How often do you get job offers, Abby?" McGee asked, eyes narrowing.

"Oh, you know. Once or twice . . ."

"That's not so bad—"

". . . a week."

"You get _weekly _job offers?" squeaked McGee.

"My last paper was published in a journal read worldwide, okay?" said Abby defensively.

"And none of these job offers include a higher salary, better lab, or more prestige?" McGee wanted to know.

"Oh, almost all of them do," Abby informed him brightly. "But why would that make me walk out on family?"

McGee surprised her by hugging her abruptly. "Ah, Abby," he sighed. "We are so lucky that you're so . . ."

"So _what_, McGee?"

"So . . . _Abby_."

_ncisncisncis_

"Your pension increases each year you work with NCIS," the presenter lectured on, reading directly from his notes. It was time for the yearly seminar on pay, salaries, and pensions, and Gibb's team was barely containing their yawns. "Here's a fun fact!"

"Not likely," muttered Tony under his breath, prompting Ziva to elbow him. The presenter looked up, alarmed, but decided not to vary from the script.

"After thirty-five years at NCIS, your pension will exceed your yearly salary!" he announced.

"Lovely," grumbled Tony under his breath. "I'll be free to retire . . . when I'm about sixty."

"Of course, your pension gets a bonus every time you win an award—an Outstanding Maritime Achievement award, etc. So the year where your pension exceeds your salary may be sooner than you think!" the presenter went on. "Use this formula to calculate when that year will come for you."

"Do medals you accept for somebody else count?" Tony wanted to know. "Because with the number of medals I've accepted on your behalf, boss, I think I deserve—ouch! Thank you, boss," he said, rubbing the back of his head.

"Why are you not using the formula?" Ziva inquired of Gibbs. "Don't you want to know when to retire?"

"No need, Ziver," he said simply.

"Whaddya mean, boss?" asked Tony, plugging the numbers into the formula for Gibbs. "Hang on—according to this, with the number of years you've been working here, and the number of awards—you'd earn more money if you retired! Hey, the same thing applies to Ducky!"

"Ya think, DiNozzo?"

"But—you're both actually losing money by coming to work!" DiNozzo blurted out.

"Ya have a point, DiNozzo?" Gibbs and Ducky asked in unison.

"Uh . . . guess not, boss," said Tony, and privately, he smiled.

_ncisncisncis_

"_Must—find—blackmail—material_," muttered McGee obsessively, his fingers flying across the keys. "_Must—get back—at Tony_."

"I take it Tony has done something to deserve this sudden hatred?" inquired Ziva, looking amused.

"He found some pictures of me in an Elf Lord costume," McGee told her, fingers still tapping frantically. "He printed them out and taped them up _everywhere_."

"I was wondering about those posters in the lobby . . ."

"He put posters in the lobby?" wailed McGee. "Oh, I must have missed those. I need to go take them down before—wait, what's this?"

"What is it, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"I was hacking into Tony's file, looking for something to get back at him," McGee explained, beckoning her over, "but I found this."

"It says that the Director Shepard considered Tony for a promotion, in _Spain_! Ha, McGee, Tony missed out on a cushy foreign assignment. This is perfect blackmail material," Ziva said excitedly.

"The file says more than that," said McGee wide-eyed, swallowing hard. "She didn't just consider him for the promotion—she offered it to him!"

"And he turned it down?" said Ziva, sobering.

"But—why?" wondered McGee. They tossed the possibilities back and forth.

"He doesn't speak Spanish?"

"He doesn't think Spanish girls are attractive?"

"He doesn't want to leave the States?"

"He's scared of responsibility?"

When the chuckles died away, their gazes locked, and they knew it wasn't any of those things.

"He didn't want to leave us," they realized, and suddenly McGee didn't care about the posters after all.

_ncisncisncis_

"I noticed you keep turning off the screens when they're talking about budget cuts. What's wrong, Probie? Worried that your job might disappear?" teased Tony, smiling smugly at his junior agent.

"I'm not worried, Tony. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a probie anymore. I'm a junior field agent, which means I have a permanent position. If anyone on our team should be worried, it's you, Ziva—no offense," McGee grumbled, not looking away from his computer screen.

"None taken, McGee," Ziva reassured him.

"But you have to be at least a _little _concerned," prodded Tony hopefully. "You know we have plenty of computer nerds—we only have one Ziva."

"How many of the other computer nerds do you know are willing to hack into the CIA?" McGee wanted to know. Tony avoided the question.

"What will you do once your job here goes away, McGeek? Write more novels—you can't do that without having the team for inspiration," he taunted.

"I can write without the team," insisted McGee. "It's not like I don't have other talents to fall back on."

"Sure you do! Let's hear 'em," suggested Tony eagerly. "Video gaming! Or, or—ooh, I know—hacking Swiss bank accounts! No, wait, I have it—laser tag!"

"If you must know, I could easily make a living from my writing," McGee said, nettled.

"Probie, there are a _lot_ of writers out there—"

"You know the first Thom E Gemcity novel I wrote?"

"Yeah?"

"I earned more in the first six months of that novel coming out than I do in a year at NCIS," McGee told him coolly. "It was a huge hit."

"Didn't you lose all that money in a hedge fund, or something?" Tony mocked, covering his surprise.

"Yeah. All the money from the first two novels," McGee announced coldly. "I've published three more since."

"If your writing is getting you loaded, why are you still here?" Tony blurted out in shock. McGee hesitated.

"Guess I really do need the team for writing inspiration," McGee said casually, and returned to his work.

_ncisncisncis_

"NO! No, no, and for the last time, _NO_!" Ziva roared into her phone. "I have no interest! I'm happy where I am—stop calling!" She spiraled off into a round of vicious Hebrew curses, that culminated in her slamming her phone down.

"Do I want to know?" inquired McGee, eying her mixed amusement and concern.

"None of your business, McGee!" she snapped. Her teammates' entertainment shifted to worry.

"Everything alright, Ziva?" Tony pressed. She sighed, exasperated.

"It's Mossad. They keep asking me to return to my old job," she admitted, glaring vengefully at her phone. It began to ring again, and she grabbed it. "YOU CAN STUFF YOUR STUPID JOB OFFER, YOU LITTLE—oh. Sorry, Mrs. Hendricks. No, I wasn't aware my car was partially blocking your driveway. Yes, I'll be sure to drive more carefully in the future."

"Not likely," muttered Tony, and Ziva made an obscene hand gesture at him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hendricks," said Ziva sweetly, before slamming down the phone in disgust. "Ugh! That woman worries about everything."

"Don't change the subject, Ziva," said McGee sternly. "You said Mossad keeps pestering you?"

"For God's sake, don't say it so loud," said Ziva hastily, glancing around. "I don't need Gibbs to hear."

"Why wouldn't you want Gibbs to know?" Tony asked eagerly. "I would enjoy watching that scene."

"To which, I can only give you the response Abby gave Gibbs, when he asked why she hadn't told him about her creepy ex," Ziva sighed.

"You want them stopped, not beaten around the head with a baseball bat," completed McGee, quoting the line that had become legend at NCIS. "Fair point. What exactly is Mossad offering, anyway?"

"I think they're terrified I'm going to turn against them, and spill all their secrets," admitted Ziva, smiling slightly for the first time. "The job offers are getting ludicrous. Almost double my salary here, a clearance that could get me access to Area 51, _and_ a choice of any assignment I want."

"You're turning down all that?" gaped Tony. "Come on, I know you're pissed at them—but a load of cash and cushy job assignment?"

"Plus, you would return to your homeland," McGee reminded her. "I thought you would want to be with your family."

"Exactly," said Ziva, and she smiled mysteriously.


	6. Of Superglue and Trust

Yawning so widely his jaw cracked, McGee checked the clock and groaned. It was precisely midnight on a Friday.

"Jeez, McGee," said Tony. "Abby's results aren't due for another half hour. Why not nap for a little?"

"How stupid do you think I am?" he retorted. "That's the third time you suggested I sleep in the last ten minutes. You're planning on superglueing my head to the desk. Again."

"I'm hurt!" cried DiNozzo, hastily stowing his bottle of superglue back into his desk drawer. "I wouldn't do that . . . again."

McGee eyed him shrewdly. "All right," he allowed abruptly. "But only because we've been friends and part of a team for over seven years, so I trust you implicitly." He let his head drop to his desk, and his eyes closed immediately.

Tony looked distinctly put out.

"What's the matter? McGee just said he trusted you," noted Ziva.

"Exactly! I was going to write on his face with a permanent marker, but he just took all the fun out of it," complained Tony, looking slightly guilty.

If you looked closely, you could almost see a sly smile on McGee's face.


	7. Compliments

(**A/N: A lost scene from the Defiance)**

"Ah, boss? There was something else I needed to tell you about the protection detail—something I didn't want to say in front of Vance," said McGee quietly, drawing his boss aside.

"Yes, McGee?" said Gibbs shortly.

"There were—ah—complications. Of a romantic nature. She—she flirted with me. And then, right before she was captured . . . well . . . she kissed me," admitted McGee, flushing slightly.

"And you did what, Agent McGee?" Gibbs wanted to know, his voice sharp.

"I pushed her away, boss," McGee said, his voice gaining confidence. "I told her I couldn't be involved with my protection detail, not while she was involved with the case."

"You didn't break protocol, Tim. You did nothing wrong," said Gibbs flatly. Then he surprised McGee by grinning as he turned to walk away. "We are _so_ lucky she didn't pick DiNozzo," he commented.

"Wait, that was a compliment, right? Right, boss? _Boss?_"


	8. When?

**(A/N: Set while Ziva's liaison position is dissolved by Vance, and she is sent back to Israel. The first time, _not_ the time she makes Gibbs choose.)**

Ziva's position in NCIS was strictly a liaison. Her first loyalty was to Mossad, her father, and Israel. Her home.

So when had she forgotten?

She suspected it was somewhere around the time when Gibbs had become first on her speed dial. Or perhaps she had really forgotten who her true family was when she made Tony second . . . and McGee third, Abby fourth, and Ducky fifth. Maybe her loyalties had shifted the day she decided to list Gibbs as her next-of-kin—a logical choice at the time, it seemed, since none of her blood relatives lived nearby. And she wasn't sure what Israeli hospitals would do when they found that her emergency contacts were Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee.

When had she come to know her teammates so well?

She suspected it was somewhere around the time that she realized that all-nighters were actually expected, not exceptions. Or perhaps she had really forgotten to keep relationships professional when she found herself sleeping at her desk . . . for the fourth time that week. Maybe she got to know them on the hours of stakeouts, the endless car drives, the seventy hour workweek—really, the possibilities were endless. And she wasn't sure how to react when she found herself communicating with her teammates easily with glares, silent looks, raised eyebrows, and single-word answers.

When had her relationships with her teammates become personal, rather than professional?

She suspected that it was somewhere around the time they saved her life . . . again . . . and she returned the favor. Or perhaps she had really forgotten she wasn't actually related to them when they spent the holidays together, an office family gathering. Maybe she came to regard them as family the day she remembered to give Ducky a box of his favorite tea on his birthday—but completely forgotten her dull Aunt Talia's present the same day. And she wasn't sure what her Israeli relatives would do when they found out she invited her co-workers for drinks more frequently than she called her father.

When had she realized how similar to a family her co-workers were?

Too late.


	9. Ray

**(A/N: A silly, stupid drabble. My take on how McGee and Tony will meet Ray.)**

"It's very nice to meet you," said McGee politely, glaring at Tony, whose introduction had been somewhat less polite.

"I'm happy to meet you as well. Ziva talks about you guys all the time," replied Ray, smiling.

"So, what's wrong with you?"

Ray's smile flagged. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're dating Ziva," said Tony, shrugging, "and Ziva is a part of Gibb's team."

"So?" asked Ray, beginning to look vaguely alarmed.

"So, there has to be something wrong with you," said McGee cheerfully. "What is it? Russian spy? Mass murderer?"

"I-I don't understand . . ."

"Clearly, you haven't heard of this team's dating history," chuckled Tony. "There's been identity thieves . . ."

". . . undercover Mossad agents . . ."

". . . daughters of international arms dealers . . ."

" . . . South Korean assassins . . ."

". . . serial killers . . ."

"Though to be fair, the last guy was an undercover assignment," completed McGee brightly. "So? What is it?"

Realizing that they were at least partially teasing, Ray laughed. "I promise you, I'm perfectly innocent—or as innocent as a CIA agent can be," he informed the chuckling agents.

"I think it's only fair to warn you, though," said Tony seriously, and the mood became grim again. "If we get so much as a _hint_ that you actually not what you say . . ."

"Let me guess," he said, rolling his eyes. "You'll kick my butt."

"Nope!" said McGee grinning humorlessly. "Ziva will. We thought it was only fair to warn you, though."

"And once she's done? Then we _will_ kick your butt," said Tony brightly. "So whatever it is that's wrong with you?

"I hope for your sake that isn't serious," McGee said. Smiling, both agents returned to work.


	10. Family Get Togethers

"Come on, Junior, that isn't fair," complained DiNozzo senior, continuing an argument that was beginning to bore everyone in the squadroom. "I tried to stay a part of your life."

"Really? Let's a have a little pop quiz, Dad. When's my birthday?" demanded Tony.

His father's face went blank. "Your birthday? Of course I know your birthday, son. It's—it's in a few months, isn't it?"

Tony opened his mouth to correct him, but Ziva pre-empted him. Making a sound like buzzer going off, she said "Wrong! It's _today_, Mr. DiNozzo. Speaking of which, I broke our no presents rule." She dug a brightly wrapped package out of the back of her desk drawer and tossed it across the aisle. "I saw it in the store and just thought of you."

Tony unwrapped it hopefully. "A book, David? Entitled 'Dating in Your Forties'? Cute. Really funny," he complained as Ziva laughed, tucking the book away nevertheless.

"I don't know. _I_ thought it was kind of funny," commented McGee, grinning at Tony's expression.

"Nobody asked for your probing, Probie! Speaking of which, what am I getting from you for my birthday?" Tony asked, somewhat greedily.

"Your birthday was today? Gosh, Tony, I must have forgotten," said McGee innocently.

"What? After all these years of working together, all this time we spent on the same team?" cried Tony, outraged. "See if _you_ get a gift from me next year."

"The last gift you got me was 'A Geek's Guide to Dating,'" McGee reminded him. "I think Ziva's gift is karmic payback."

"So? That's no excuse . . . wait. Are you teasing me, McGeek?" gasped Tony.

"And enjoying every minute of it. Of course I remembered your birthday, Tony, you've reminded me everyday for weeks," McGee laughed. "The computer on your desk may _look_ like the same computer you had yesterday on the outside, but on the inside, it is oh _so_ different. I've doubled your memory capacity, cleaned your desktop, and tripled the processing speed."

"And the amazing McGeek strikes again!" Tony mock-cheered. "Battling the demons of low government budgets and crappy equipment with his mighty powers of a MIT education and techno-geekery-whatsit! Thanks, Probie."

"I just got tired of you claiming that you were taking a break while waiting for something to load," McGee insisted. "With the speed I gave your computer, that excuse is officially useless."

Tony's father watched the entire exchange with a strange expression on his face. "All right, next question," he ordered abruptly, startling Tony, who had almost forgotten his father was there.

"Okay, Dad—what's my favorite color?" he asked absently, already testing the effects of McGee's computer updates on his movie trivia game.

"Color? Ah, blue, isn't it?" suggested his father, somewhat hopelessly.

It was McGee's turn to make an angry buzzer noise. "Red," he informed the senior DiNozzo. "The color of his dream car."

"Can you say 'midlife catastrophe?'" taunted Ziva.

"Midlife crisis, Ziva," hissed McGee.

"Yes, what McGee said," Ziva corrected herself.

"Wanting to buy a red sports car doesn't indicate a midlife crisis," Tony insisted.

"No, but carrying on about it does," McGee informed him.

"I do not—"

"According to my computer, you spent forty minutes out of the last hour looking at pictures of red muscle cars online, Tony," Ziva told him.

"What? How did _you _hack my computer? McGee's the McGeek around here," Tony complained.

"I didn't," Ziva said, giving him her trademark sly smile. "I was bluffing."

"Not fair! You used that trick to get my sperm bank secret out of me, too!" whined Tony.

"And yet, you keep falling for it," noted McGee, laughing not unkindly.

"Two questions don't prove anything," muttered DiNozzo senior. "Another question!"

"What's my favorite Christmas movie?" questioned Tony.

"Uhh . . ." His father hesitated.

"Don't tell me you don't know that!" cried McGee. "Isn't it a DiNozzo family tradition to watch It's a Wonderful Life with caramel popcorn?"

"I said it was a DiNozzo family tradition. I never said how many members of the DiNozzo clan participated," grumbled Tony.

"Ha! Your Christmas tradition is to watch an old movie? Alone? Eating microwave popcorn?" cackled Ziva.

"Shut it, David. You don't even celebrate Christmas," Tony snapped.

"I did last year!" she reminded him. "With you, in MTAC."

"Yeah, but only after Ducky explained to you what Christmas _was_," Tony retorted.

"Didn't you tell me Christmas was the holiday for shopping, presents, and cheesy decorations? You are the _last_ person to be bragging about understanding Christmas," chipped in McGee.

"McGoo! I already told you that no one wants your probing, Probie," Tony said.

Ziva zapped his hand with a rubber band from across the aisle, her assassin training giving her deadly accuracy and force. Tony was so startled he squeaked in pain and almost dropped his coffee.

"Hey! _I'm_ interested in what McGee has to say," said Ziva. "What's this about Christmas being for 'shopping, presents and cheesy decoration?'"

"Well, this girl turned him down for a date, claiming that it was too close to Christmas and she was visiting family," explained McGee eagerly. "In a fit of bitterness, Tony said on the phone that Christmas was nothing but a commercial holiday, and the girl admitted that the real reason she had turned him down was—_ah!_ That _hurt_, Tony." McGee cradled his hand where Tony's hurled stapler had cracked against it.

"Serves you right, McNosy, prying in other people's private lives," grumbled Tony.

"Oh, this coming from the man who once went through my trash to find out what sort of gum I used?" demanded Ziva, attempting to zap him with a second rubber band that he barely dodged.

"How did you know about—ah. You were bluffing? Again?" moaned Tony.

The entire team fell apart laughing. Tony hurled a pen at McGee, our of revenge. The younger agent held up a file as a shield, but he was too slow to stop the pen from smacking him on the head. DiNozzo's laughter was cut short when Ziva's stapler clocked him on the head. The sight of Gibbs passing through the squadroom on his way to the director's office stopped the hail of flying projectiles, but nothing could stop the three agents' laughter. They continued to laugh and banter, to joke and tease.

In the background, Tony's father slipped away. What was the point of a family reunion if you couldn't tell who were the friends, and who was the family?

**(A/N: The idea behind this oneshot is, of course, that DiNozzo's father understands him less well than his co-workers. Enjoy.)**


	11. You

You don't know what to think when Director Vance assigns you as a rookie to Gibbs' team.

You've heard . . . _things_ about this team. Strange stories, especially about their leader, not all of them good. About the legendary time where they stayed up all night or slept at their desks for a week. About how Gibbs smacked anyone goofed off. About how they goofed off constantly, anyway. About how they averaged six cups of coffee a day . . . each. About how a simple case of a man killing his wife out of jealousy led them to take down an international arms dealer. About how the chick can kill you six ways with a paper clip (eight if it's rusty), how the geek hacks secure government databases regularly, and how the senior agent once weaseled a confession out of the Director of Mossad . . . while the _Director_ was interrogating _him_. About how they had the best record of any NCIS team, and spent holidays together, and pulled all nighters on a regular basis, and once invaded a Somali terrorist camp to rescue a captured teammate.

Once you arrive, you find that these stories are true, and more. Gibbs headslaps you your first day, and the other's seem to think that this is a sign of welcome. They casually refer the director as Vance, slurp an incredible amount of caffeine, and bend the rules constantly—before long, you find yourself doing this as well. You decide that, in spite of their inherent craziness, the tightly knit team can't be all bad. At first, you find it amusing that they complete each other's sentences, know Gibbs' orders practically before he gives them, and can read one another so well. Then you can't help it. It begins to annoy you. Their teasing, banter, jokes, bickering. How Ziva and Tony seem able to hash out their plans through little hand signals you still can't decipher. Tony and McGee's ability to bicker for an hour straight, then somehow walk away still friends. The way McGee was finishing Ziva's sentences for her when she fumbled with technical terms. It's as though the team is speaking their own language, or they're all on the inside of some joke you still don't get. You're sick of being the only new kid on a team that's been working together for, in your opinion, way too long.

One day, while McGee is in Abby's lab, and Ziva is interviewing a witness, and Tony is being briefed by Ducky, you can't help it. You speak up.

"How long am I going to be the probie?" you ask Gibbs, hoping he won't be bothered by the interruption. He considers you for a long moment.

"Have you ever played M'M tiddlywinks?" he asks. This doesn't make any sense, and you're tempted to tell him so, but you've only worked here a week and you already know that it would be a dangerous idea. So you just admit you've never played that game before.

"Neither have I," he admits, surprising you. "Tony and Ziva made it up on one boring stakeout, to pass time. When McGee's shift was over, Tony taught him too. They've been playing it on long car rides, plane rides, and stakeouts, ever since."

He regards you for another long moment. Suddenly, you realize that maybe this conversation isn't as crazy as you originally thought.

And maybe that applies to a lot of aspects of the team.

"Nobody else understands the rules of their game," he explains. "Nobody else knows how to play it. M'M tiddlywinks . . . it's _their _game. I don't think anyone else will ever understand it."

The next day, you apply for a transfer to a new team. You know that Gibbs answered your question, in his own way. These three have been through Somali terrorist camps, hostage situations, armed standoffs, and hundreds of all nighters together.

There's nothing you, them, or anyone else could do—but you know that you'll never learn the game of M'M tiddlywinks.


	12. Photos

**(A/N: Two takes on how Ziva forgave McGee for keeping the picture of her in a bikini. The first one's funny, the second one's mushy—take your pick)**

"Bye, Ziva," called McGee hopefully as he passed her desk.

She, quite coldly, ignored him.

"I said bye_, _Ziva," pressed McGee.

"Good-_bye_, Special Agent McGee," said Ziva, in a tone that could turn oceans to ice.

"Ziva, I'm sorry I gave Tony those pictures, alright? You know how he is—" tried McGee desperately.

"Leave, and I _won't_ send my knife into your eye," ordered Ziva, not looking up from her monitor. McGee sighed.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," he muttered, returning to his computer, "but desperate times call for desperate measures . . ." He clicked away furiously, piquing even Tony's interest. "Check your email, Ziva. See you in the morning," he said, grabbing his gear as he headed for the elevator.

Ziva's staunch determination not to open whatever McGee had sent caved after four minutes, which was good, because McGee had enclosed a virus that would have opened it automatically after five minutes. She read the email.

Ziva-

Look. I'm really sorry about giving Tony the bikini pictures. I have my own pictures attached—you can do with them as you wish. Forgiven?

Tim

Now burning with curiosity, Ziva opened the pictures McGee had attached.

The first shot was of a huge building, hung with a large banner with letters proudly proclaiming "Online Gaming Convention" set against a background of a fantasy landscape—complete with fairies, goblins, and a tall wizard. The second photo showed McGee, grinning widely, dressed in an elaborate Elf Lord costume. Fake pointed ears, an ornate robe, and—was that a pointy _hat?_ He was standing in front of a booth decked out in Elf Lord paraphernalia. Next shot: McGee posing with a Level Five Warlord. Next shot: McGee engaging in a mock duel with a Fairy Queen, wielding a fake foam sword. Next shot . . .

Ziva scrolled through the pictures, an incredulous grin spreading across her face. Was he forgiven? Of course. Just after she did one little thing . . .

"Tony? Do you know any print shops that are open this late? I need to print a few dozen posters."

2.

Ziva descended on McGee's computer and began scrolling through his files furiously. McGee was out fetching coffee for the team, and he had left his computer on and unprotected. She had only fifteen minutes to find if McGee had made any back-up copies of that picture. Ziva _thought_ that he would delete all of them, but after seeing his screensaver of her, she wasn't so sure.

Opening his settings, she realizes that she was wrong. Her bikini shot wasn't _the_ screensaver—he had set it as part of a slide show. Every hour, the picture featured in the screensaver would change.

Her throat closed as she realized which photos he had chosen. There was Ducky, lecturing to an unseen audience, clearly caught in the middle of one of his longer stories. Here was Tony, pulling a ridiculous face at the camera, so utterly juvenile and pure Tony that Ziva chuckled. Abby was there too, though you could only see her blurry outline since she seemed to be jumping up and down in some caffeine-fueled excitement, her pigtails flapping wildly. And Gibbs—Gibbs was part of the slide show too, a dark outline hunched over his desk, clearly working some late night. This was what McGee chose to look at in the months the team was apart.

She closed the window, and returned her desk. Suddenly, being on McGee's slide show didn't seem like such a bad thing after all.


	13. Kate

**(A/N: Definitely the three darkest drabbles I've written—bordering on angst. Hope I didn't screw it up. They're about the team adjusting to Kate's death. The first and last drabbles are scenes I've stolen and adjusted from existing episodes—the second is my own.)**

"Don't we have knee pads for this, or something?" asked McGee irritably. "These are Armani slacks—I don't want to ruin them by kneeling in the dirt."

"I don't know, Probie," complained Tony testily. "I'm not in charge of inventory. Ask Kate." He stiffened. "Damn. I meant—I didn't—_God_." He rifled through a bin of supplies, and tossed McGee two plastic bags. "You can kneel on these. _Happy_?" DiNozzo demanded.

"No," murmured McGee. "No, I'm not."

""

"This Friday? At 12:00? Sure, I'll be there," Karen said, smiling shyly. McGee cheered mentally.

"Thanks! I'll, uh, see you there," he said, smiling at the nervous receptionist. It had taken him almost a month to work up the nerve to ask her out. Of course, he hadn't factored this into his morning planning, which put him almost ten minutes behind his precise schedule . . .

As he rushed for the elevator, he automatically reached for his cellphone. Pressing number three on his speed dial, he was surprised to be jumped straight to voice mail.

"Hey, Kate! I finally asked out Karen, and she said yes. I took your advice about bringing her my coffee, and—well, I just wanted to tell you. I'll tell you more at the office, when Tony isn't around. You know, I was surprised when I went straight to voice mail. You don't want to let Gibbs catch with your cellphone off. He always says the only excuse for being inaccessible is being dead—"

McGee choked off.

""

Gibbs walked quietly into the dark squadroom. It had been a long day, and not an easy one either. It was the team's first investigation with Ziva, and it hadn't gone smoothly. In a rare moment of pity, he had dismissed them all for the night, instead of making them write up their report while it was fresh. Making people write reports late at night on a severe sleep deficit would be counterproductive, he rationalized.

He, on the other hand, had returned directly to the darkened squadroom. _Somebody_ had to process the body of the woman Ziva had killed, not to mention turn in the evidence. He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he was several steps into the room before he realized he wasn't alone. Gibbs automatically reached for his gun, but some instinct kept him from drawing it.

There was a form sitting at Kate's desk. His heart rate sped up. Nobody—_nobody—_had sat at her desk since Kate had died—not with Gibbs' permission, anyway. It was a feminine shape, definitely—long dark hair—could it be—

The light flicked on, revealing Ziva's face. Her eyes, sympathetic, showed that she understood the hope that Gibbs hadn't articulated even in his thoughts.

"She's gone, Gibbs," she said quietly.

**(A/N: I was just re-watching the Silver War—you know, the episode where Ziva was introduced as part of the team—and I took the last scene as the base for my last drabble. Maybe . . . was it just me . . . or for a moment, did it look like Gibbs thought it was Kate sitting at the darkened desk?)**


	14. Handsy

"Guess what happened this morning?" Abby asked McGee eagerly.

"What?" asked McGee.

"You have to guess first!"

"Abby, if I'm not upstairs in ten minutes, Gibbs will wonder if I only volunteered to bring down the evidence bags to see you," warned McGee.

"Which you totally did," retorted Abby.

"Well . . . maybe a little. Just tell me what happened this morning!" said McGee, hastily changing the subject.

"You know that creepy guy in Accounting?" questioned Abby.

"The one with the strange eyes?"

"Exactly. Anyway, we were in the elevator this morning . . . _and he tried to pinch Ziva's butt!_" she confided excitedly.

"That's unbelievable!" grinned McGee.

"I know!" squealed Abby.

"Is he going to be okay?" McGee wanted to know.

"Well, the doctors said he was in stable condition. With some serious rehab, he might even regain partial use of his hand," Abby reported.

"Hmm. Ziva must have been in a forgiving mood."


	15. Hospitals

Tony quickly scanned the hospital waiting room for anyone he knew before entering. It was unusual for DiNozzo to rise this early on a Saturday, and if any saw him visiting Gibbs in the hospital so early on his day off, they might think he was worried or something. And he _wasn't_ worried. Really. Gibbs could defeat illness and injury through force of will. Still, that didn't stop Tony from feeling a little uneasy while Gibbs was in intensive care.

Hence the early morning Saturday hospital visit. Gibbs had been injured yesterday morning, and had been in surgery all Friday. He was only mildly injured, which hadn't stopped Abby from having a full scale panic attack. Tony had to send Abby early after she melted down, telling her that there was no need for her to stay at work when no forensics work to be done.

Seeing nobody in the hospital lobby that he recognized, Tony hurried up to the front desk. Leaning in flirtatiously, he addressed the woman at the front desk.

"Excuse me, Dr.—Maxine, is it?" he asked, reading her name tag and flashing his most charming smile. "May I call you Max?" The woman rolled her eyes.

"Cut the crap. You know as well as I do that doctors don't man the front desk," she said coolly. "I'm Nurse Whitmore, not Maxine, and definitely not Max. Since you arrived as soon as visitation hours began, I'm assuming you're here to see a patient. Since this the intensive care unit, I'm also pretty sure you're not supposed to be seeing this patient unless you're a family member or emergency contact. Therefore, you're flirting with me to get in to see your friend."

"Is it working?"

She just rolled her eyes. "Who do you want to see?" she asked, turning to her computer.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

"And what's your name, sir?" she wanted to know, typing this information into the computer.

"You can call me Ton—"

"_What's_ your name, sir?" she cut him off.

"_Very_ Special Agent Antony DiNozzo," announced Tony, reaching for his badge. Maybe if he played the government agent card . . .

"Oh! You can head on in, then," she said, her manner changing abruptly. Startled, DiNozzo's hand froze on his badge. "Why didn't you tell me you were listed as an emergency contact?" She didn't wait for the stunned agent's reaction, but carried on. "Well, the room's right down the hall," she said cheerfully, waving him along. "Third door on your right."

Tony hurried down the hallway and through the door, only to trip over something lying across the doorway and go flying. He swore under his breath and scrambled to his feet groping for a nonexistent gun to point at what looked like a lab coat piled in front of the door.

"Tony?" a familiar voice called. Abby scrambled out from under the lab coat she had been using as a blanket. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are, Abs," Tony sighed, his breathing returning to normal. "Jeez, Abby did you have to fall asleep on the floor in front of the door? And are those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday? Don't tell me you came straight here from work."

"I had to! This is _Gibbs_ in the hospital," Abby complained.

"Fine, but don't stay tonight as well. Gibbs would never forgive me if I let you wear yourself down," Tony reminded her.

"Don't worry, I already made her promise," called a new voice from the far side of the bed. Director Shepard pried herself out of a deep armchair facing the window and folded the thin hospital sheet she had slept under. "You're not the only one who Gibbs would blame if Abby worked herself sick. I have my own neck to worry about."

"Director! How did you get in? Come to think of it, how did _you_ get in Abby?" Tony wondered.

"She was already here by the time I got off from work," Jenny informed him. "It was . . . incredible." The redhead shook her head with admiration. "I've never seen her talk so fast, and that's saying something. The nurses kept asking her to slow down so they could understand her, and she just shrieked on about how they just weren't listening with 'all their ears'—whatever that meant. I couldn't catch everything she was saying, but a good portion of her rant was about she should be listed as next-of-kin since she and Gibbs were family."

"Well, they weren't going to let me in!" cried Abby, while Tony chuckled at the scene he could imagine all too vividly. "I had to do something!"

"She had apparently been arguing for over an hour by the time I got there," reported Jenny. "They tried to call security, but she pulled out a Taser. The nurses might have held out for a few more minutes, but then I called Condy—you know, Condoleeza Rice? She was so disappointed when I had to cancel our dinner last night, and she wanted to make sure it was worthwhile."

"You had dinner with—" began Tony, then shook his head. "Never mind."

"Gibbs? Gibbs, are you awake?" called Ziva from the hallway, knocking at the door. Tony let her in.

"Now how did _you_ get past the nurses?" Abby asked, hugging her friend.

"Oh, it wasn't too hard."

"What did you just hide?"

"Nothing, Tony!"

"I definitely saw you tuck something in your belt."

"Your eyes are playing pranks on you."

"You mean tricks, and they're _not_. You slipped something shiny into your belt."

"I told you, Tony, it's _nothing_."

"Ziva, please tell me you didn't threaten hospital security with a knife."

"I didn't threaten hospital security with a knife?"

"Are you lying?"

"Do you want to know?"

This discussion, thankfully, was interrupted by the ring of Tony's cellphone.

"What is it, Probie? You realize this is Saturday morning," said DiNozzo sharply.

"_Were you planning on visiting Gibbs today?_" asked McGee over the phone.

"Can't, he's in Intensive Care," said Tony brusquely, ignoring the looks of surprise he got from his teammates. It was bad enough that Abby, Jenny, and Ziva all knew he had been worried enough to rise on a Saturday morning and visit Gibbs—the last thing he wanted was for McGee to know too.

"_Well, I can fix that! I'm in the hospital waiting room now, with my laptop. If I just have a few more minutes—there! The hospital's network now says Gibbs is permitted visitors_," McGee cried excitedly over the phone, the sound of tapping keys audible even through the bad connection.

"Oh. Well, in that case . . ." Tony opened the door to Gibbs room, and waved to a startled McGee walking down the hall towards them. "Hey, Probie! What took you so long?" he called, grinning at the computer geek's surprised face.

"I—I—how—" McGee stuttered, staring at the unconscious Gibbs and assembled team. In the end, he just shook his head. "I suppose I should just be surprised Ducky isn't already here."

"Right behind you, Timothy," called Ducky, from the doorway. "It turns out that wearing scrubs and striding purposefully can get you into any hospital."

"Dr. Mallard! What are you doing here?"

"Director! I didn't see you. I could ask the same thing!"

"Oh, she just called Condoleeza Rice to get in."

"What does Condoleeza Rice have to do with anything?"

"Well, they were going to have dinner, but—"

"You had dinner with Condoleeza Rice?"

"Well, she was going to have dinner, but she canceled when we had to spend the night here."

"Abigail, don't tell me slept over. Gibbs will be furious."

"Of course she slept over, Ducky! Those are the same clothes she wore yesterday."

"And why would you notice something like that, Tim?"

"I—I just—that's not important. Ah, how did you get past security, Tony?"

"Nice subject change, McAwkward."

"You're not answering my question, Tony."

"Our fearless leader apparently has me down as an emergency contact. I'm actually here _legally_, unlike you all. Isn't it a felony to hack secure hospital servers?"

"Shut up, Tony, somebody could be listening."

"HEY, EVERYONE, MCGEE HACKED INTO—"

"Shut _up_! Besides, it's not like Gibbs doesn't make me do that sort of thing on a regular basis."

"Gibbs makes you hack illegally?"

"Oh, Director! I, uh—"

"Timmy's in trouble, Timmy's in tro—"

"Be quiet, Tony, before I pull out the same knife I used on the nurses."

"So you did threaten them with a knife!"

"Ziva! As a doctor, I'm very disappointed that you would threaten a fellow physician."

"Well, I had to—"

"Everyone just _shut up_!" roared Gibbs from his hospital bed. Everyone, even the director, jumped guiltily. They hadn't realized that Gibbs was awake. "How the hell did all of you get in here?"

"Some intimidation via knives, a little judicious felonious hacking, a timely call from Condy Rice, a pair of hospital scrubs, and a fit of hysterics, boss," reported Tony succinctly, handing Gibbs the pocketknife he had confiscated from the EMT's, which Gibbs excepted with relief. His boss glared at them from the hospital bed.

"So, more or less, an average day?" he asked wearily. They nodded eagerly. "Well, consider yourselves headslapped."

They shifted uncomfortably, and Gibbs surprised them by smiling. "That said—well done. All of you."


	16. Choosing

Gibbs never chooses between members of his team.

Sure, he always says that Abby was his favorite, and his friendship with Ducky stretches back years longer than any other. But among his field agents, he never takes sides. If DiNozzo and McGee compete for who got to give their reports first, he picks Ziva. If Ziva and McGee holler "shotgun!" in unison and turned to him for conflict resolution, he gives DiNozzo the front seat. If Ziva and DiNozzo want to know whose witness statements were better he headslaps them both, and let them know he likes McGee's. Never does he show a preference; never does he pick sides. Once, Ducky even comments that he only ever sees Jethro flee from three things: ex-wives, medals, and favoritism. Gibbs ducks questions about preference, dodges situations that required him to choose between agents, and just plain clams up when someone inquires whose his favorite on the team.

If only that was always a choice. Ziva says she cannot work with Tony—it's me or him, she says. And suddenly, ducking the decision is no longer an option. He has to pick him or her.

He does.

And he draws Ziva close, and kisses her forehead, and looks at her eyes, and realizes she understands, and lets her go, and turns away, and walks away, and gets onto the plane. Because Gibbs never chooses between members of his team . . . until he does.

**(A/N: Based on Aliyah. Not really sure where this came from. _Really _not sure whether the last paragraph works. I'm not condemning Gibbs or accusing Ziva of being less important than Tony. I—like Gibbs—don't have favorites or take sides. This was just an idea I had to put to paper . . . )**


	17. Very Different

(**A/N: A series of little scenes documenting Ziva's change from cold and untrusting Mossad operative to a compassionate NCIS agent. Some scenes stolen from early episodes, and others made up. Alright, not my best work, but frankly, I'm sick of working on it.)**

"I don't need your help, Agent McGee!" cried Ziva, batting away McGee's hands as he dabbed dirt from her face and neck with a wet paper towel.

"I'm just trying to help, Agent David," said McGee defensively, backing off. She hesitated.

"Fine," she allowed, submitting to his ministrations.

""

Ziva stared at her face in the mirror. Memories swam through her head—Ducky, Abby, everyone commenting on how unaffected she was by Gibbs' injuries. But wasn't that her job?

For every team member she heard whispering about her emotional reserve, there was a memory of her father instructing her to keep just that. _Stay focused. Stay in control. Don't let anything, not even your teammate's injuries, distract you._ She could hear him lecturing her, yelling at her even as she broke down into tears over her partner's death.

But from the way the others had been acting—maybe it was allowed to care? Maybe, on this team . . . it was okay?

As she watched her face in the mirror, a tear ran down her face.

""

In Mossad, they greeted each other strictly by title. _Agent_ this, _agent_ that. Only the oldest and closest of friends did away with this formality. Even her father sometimes called her Agent David while they were on the job.

Which is why it came as such a shock to be casually referred to Ziva on her very first day. A big shock: being expected to do the same. A bigger shock: finding it became absolutely natural, even comfortable. The biggest shock, though: Gibbs calling her Ziver. And her liking it. It was the affectionate nickname her father had never given her.

She wasn't sure she liked her father's reaction, though, when he visits. They're on his protection detail, and she checks behind closed doors for threats. As she aims her weapon at the closet door, Gibbs calls out to her.

"I've got your back, Ziver," he says, and Eli has the strangest look in his eye.

""

Eli's entire protection detail was a tense affair, but strangely, the time where they came closest to blows was a complete misunderstanding.

Oh, there were times where she thought Tony would punch Eli when he expressed no repentance for what he had done, and she sincerely hoped that her father had left none of his personal electronics in McGee's vengeful reach. But the only time they came close to actual violence was started by her father.

He was watching, with an air of surprised disapproval, while she and McGee teamed up to prank Tony. The prank was successful, one of their best, sprinkling hot pepper flakes into his coffee in revenge for stealing their shared doughnut that morning. Gibbs walked in while Tony was still frantically rinsing out his mouth.

"Coffee not to your taste, DiNozzo?" was all he said, headslapping Ziva and McGee in unison. Eli flew at him in fury, and Ziva had to catch his arm to stop him.

"How dare you slap my daughter—" he began, but Ziva talked over him.

"It's alright, Abba! He does it all the time," cried Ziva, trying to defuse the situation. She failed.

"You _regularly_ hit Agent David—" he demanded, but Ziva stopped him again.

"It's a sign of affection . . ." she tried to explain.

Gibbs glared.

". . . at least, we think it is. Think of it as a . . . _fatherly_ pat on the back."

Eli flinched.

""

It wasn't until Eli saw his daughter with her new team that he truly let her go.

There were the big differences: the way she trusted her teammate's with the knowledge of her father's hiding place, her seemingly utter trust in their loyalty, their ability to read her mind.

And there were little things. Gibbs calling her Ziver. Coming into the NCIS squadroom and finding Ziva asleep at her desk surrounded by her dozing team. Watching her partner place Ziva's take-out order, and finding that her partner knew precisely what Ziva wanted without having to ask. The protective way her teammates flanked her whenever Eli drew close to her. Ziva impulsively hugging that McGee guy when he tossed her a Pop-Tart from the vending machine after they received an early morning call. _Ziva! _Hugging someone! Even McGee had looked surprised.

Slowly but surely over her time at NCIS, Ziva had become different. Very different.


	18. Us Against Them

**(A/N: A quick, dark character study of Agent Lee. I always had a lot of pity for her, and I hoped to make others feel the same way.)**

She just wanted it to be 'us against them' again.

Lee had become a lawyer because she loved the rules. As a little girl, she saw the massive law books, and thought that there had to be a solution to every problem in the world. If there was a dilemma or problem, she just had to consult the books, and there would be a law that made the whole mess make sense. Right and wrong, defined in dry, spare words. No moral ambiguity, just legal and illegal. Good versus evil. Us against them. If she ever doubted she was doing the right thing, there were her law books telling her she had sided with the good people.

Then her dear daughter had vanished, leaving nothing but a threatening note and lock of her hair behind. And just like that, it was no longer 'us against them'—it was 'Michelle against the world.' The rest of the world was a potential enemy at best, and a risk to her Amanda's life at worst. She trusted only herself, relied upon only herself. The nameless kidnapper was an enemy, and once her colleagues found out about her betrayal, they would be too. Perhaps before Langer, they might have forgiven her, but not now. Never now. Lee went through each day knowing that she no longer had any allies left in the world. It was Michelle against the world, and she thought it always would be.

That was why she was almost relieved when they discovered her treason. Now there would be people whose primary objective was to rescue her daughter. She had a whole agency on her side, and for a moment, it seemed like it was us against them again. Then she saw how reckless they were being, how willing they risked her girl's life to achieve their aims. Michelle saw DiNozzo cling to the man he was following like some amateur, and, panic-stricken, splashed her hot coffee on her supposed ally.

Michelle against the world.

"How could you do it?" asked McGee abruptly in the car, as they drove back to the NCIS headquarters. "How could you betray everyone? NCIS? How could you betray _us_?"

She could feel her face close. The world became still and cool.

"If I must kill every NCIS agent," she said steadily, saying each word slowly and deliberately, "if I must tear this building apart brick by brick, if I must burn the entire agency to ashes, I will do it. I will get my daughter back. I will do what it takes. Whatever it takes." She didn't know the words were true until she spoke them aloud.

The rest of the car's occupants shuddered slightly, as if her words had chilled them. Lee didn't blame them.

They had chilled her.

She realized, with a vague, distant sense of disappointment, that her life was over. Death, jail, it didn't matter—she and Amanda would never be a family again. With all thoughts of her own future abandoned, Lee set about caring for Amanda's. That was why she didn't panic when Bankston took her hostage on the bus.

After all, she had succeeded. She didn't have to worry about leaving Amanda alone.

Ziva might have done the same thing, Abby looked sympathetic when Lee asked if Amanda was healthy, McGee said he understood her a little, Tony had helped save Amanda, and Gibbs—well, Gibbs was probably a lost cause, but it didn't matter. Lee was no longer alone in facing the world. Her team was on her side again.

So when Bankston began firing wildly, Michelle screamed _shoot_, and screamed it again—because she would do what it took, whatever it took, to make sure her daughter survived and it was always _us against them_.


	19. Ten Reasons

**(A/N: Alright, they're cheesy and light, but I needed some fluff after the last chapter. Sorry, I know I shouldn't be publishing lists, but this was just too fun to keep hidden on my hard drive.)**

Ten moments why Gibbs wants to quit:

1. Finding Tony with his nose bleeding because Ziva "accidentally" elbowed him after they yelled shotgun in unison.

2. Discovering Tony's secret stash of GSM magazines he thought Gibbs didn't know about.

3. Tony arriving late . . . again.

4. Ziva threatening anyone who bothered her with knives.

5. Walking in on the team napping at their desks.

6. Realizing that McGee was illegally hacking into top secret government databases.

7. Finding McGee's collection of self-help CDs he still had in the back of his drawer.

8. Abby and McGee chattering over one another whenever they're talking tech.

9. Tony flirting with any attractive woman they came across . . . suspects, victims, and by-standers alike.

10. His team.

Ten moments why Gibbs will never quit:

1. Finding a suspect with his nose bleeding because Ziva "accidentally" elbowed him in retaliation for beating up Tony.

2. Discovering Tony's secret stash of medals he claimed for Gibbs, that he thought Gibbs didn't know about.

3. Tony leaving late . . . again.

4. Ziva's threatening anyone who bothered her friends with knives.

5. Walking in on the team napping at their desks after the third all nighter that week.

6. Realizing that McGee was risking arrest by illegally hack top-secret government databases for the case.

7. Finding McGee's personally paid-for collection of cellphones he used to replace Gibbs' phone whenever the boss broke his cell and asked McGee to "reboot it."

8. Abby and McGee finishing each other sentences whenever they're talking tech.

9. Tony flirting with any attractive woman they came across who could help the case.

10. His team.


	20. Impact of Ziva

**(A/N: The team while Ziva is in Israel. And yes, "genuineness" is a real word.)**

It was frightening, really, to discover how large of a part of their lives Ziva had become.

Naturally, as her partner, Tony was the most affected. He knew it wouldn't be easy to cut her out of his life, but he was surprised at just how many ties there were to sever. Oh, it was simple enough to eliminate her email from the top of his contact list, and crossing her address out of his address book wasn't hard. Other things were harder, though. Deleting her number from his phone was one thing—she had been number two on his speed dial, just before McGee, and after only Gibbs. But Tony lost track of the number of time he began to press number two before remembering she was gone. It was a week before he stopped expecting to see Ziva at her desk, a month before he stopped beginning to drive to her apartment. He never really stopped seeing her face in crowds.

The poor series of agents they attempted to "replace" her with suffered as well.

In the wake of Ziva's departure, Vance tried to soften the blow with a stream of probies that were temporarily assigned. Few lasted more than a week—the record was three weeks. It was _hard _being the new agent on a team that never stopped thinking about the old one. The team didn't like outsiders, and the temporary agents learned to answer to a whole variety of names. Abby took to deliberately mispronouncing their names, much as she had once done with Ziva. Gibbs quit learning their names, calling one and all "Probie." Tony kept accidentally calling the Probies "Ziva—" then breaking off with a pained look on his face. Ducky insisted on calling them by their full names. Even McGee gave up after the first six TADs, mixing up their names, and when all else failed, referring to them as "hey, you!"

Ziva's departure left the entire team shell shocked.

The irregular lunches she and Ducky used to share weren't the same without Ziva complaining about some unhealthy American food or arguing over a confusing idiom with the waiter. Abby missed having another girl on the team. After all, there was only so many times she could bully McGee into painting her nails with black nail polish. McGee himself thought that his and Ziva's relationship had always been the one with the least teasing and the most genuineness. He missed having somebody to resist Tony's teasing with. And Gibbs . . . well, Gibbs was still reeling from being forced to make a choice between agents. He was certain he would never stop second guessing that decision—as certain as he was that he could never let anyone see that.

So they deleted her from their speed dial, removed her from their contact lists, crossed her out of their address books, emptied her desk, cleaned out her locker, wiped her hard drive—and realized the most frightening part of losing Ziva wasn't realizing how large of an impact she had on their lives.

It was realizing that the impact would never really fade.


	21. Shared Custody

Tony grinned as he watched the scene unfold before his eyes. The team had battled for jurisdiction of a crime scene so many times that their various strategies and plans worked like a well oiled machine.

Gibbs argued, loudly and pointlessly, with the lead FBI investigator. Unfortunately, Fornell wasn't the FBI agent assigned to the case for once, so there was no point in even trying a shared investigation. Instead, Gibbs bellowed himself hoarse in the face of the burly FBI agent, distracting the corpulent man expertly.

Ziva, meanwhile, crawled across the floor, ostensibly looking for evidence. Her rather wriggly style of crawling put on quite a show that captured the attention of all the male FBI agents processing the scene—not to mention Tony, as well. McGee, unnoticed by the FBI's leader or underlings, casually brushed up against the pack of evidence the FBI was filling. He made a vaguely cylindrical shape with his thumb and forefinger, a signal to Tony. McGee had lifted the bag with the bullet. Ziva waved him over on some pretense, allowing McGee to plant his hands on the file of fingerprints the other agents had lifted. To heighten the FBI agents' distraction, she "accidentally" hiked her shirt up just a few inches, while still squirming across the floor "in search of evidence." Gibbs got in his counterpart's face, which was turning increasingly dangerous shades of plum, drawing the man's attention away from McGee. McGee hastily palmed the fingerprints and slipped them into his bag. He flashed a thumbs up to Tony, who was still observing in a corner—he had lifted all the prints.

Tony slipped out his phone. _Prb gt bllt+prnts_, he texted Ziva and Gibbs. Ziva checked her phone and nodded subtly to show she got his message—probie got the bullet and prints. Gibbs just stared at his phone blankly, then shook it sharply. McGee flinched. Tony gulped and hurriedly tried again.

_Probie got the bullet and prints_, he typed carefully, and Gibbs nodded his understanding. The NCIS team leader abruptly acquiesced in his argument with the FBI team leader, allowing him control of the crime scene. Suspicious, the other agent demanded to know just what game Gibbs was playing. Ziva rose and artfully tripped, her normally graceful limbs pinwheeling wildly as she clawed for balance. While the FBI leader was occupied keeping her on her feet, Gibbs ducked away. Tony hurried over to engage the other FBI agents in the traditional exchange of insults so that McGee could slip off unnoticed. They reconvened at the car.

They would never admit it, but shared jurisdiction crime scenes were actually kind of fun.


	22. Budget Cuts

**(A/N: I know this story is goofy, and not entirely realistic. Still, _I_ thought it was funny.)**

At first, the team was relieved when they heard nobody was being laid off due to budget cuts.

"While the budget will have to be cut deeply, we think that with sufficient saving, no jobs need be lost," Vance had announced, to general sighs of relief. "Saving jobs will be our top priority."

They had been glad. They could deal with any cuts, no matter how ridiculous, so long as none of their colleagues were fired—or so they thought.

At first, the affects of the spending cuts were minor. Expense reports were scrutinized more heavily and audited more frequently. Meals on the job were no longer considered costs that could be charged to the agency. That seemed reasonable, considering just how many meals they ate while working. Vending machines were poorly stocked, water fountains quit working, and faxes had to be self-repaired. They didn't mind—after all, this was relatively _normal_. Then the changes became stricter.

"I think we're out of printer paper. Remind me to ask Accounting to buy some new reams," suggested McGee.

"Can't," said Gibbs shortly. "Our office supply budget is used up for this month."

"But all we've bought so far this month is a pack of pens!" complained Ziva, frowning at her report, which appeared to be printed on the back of some scrap paper.

"You have a point, David?" asked Gibbs grimly. She opened and shut her mouth as she considered the implications.

"Hey, the fax machine's ink cartridge is empty—" began DiNozzo, entering the squadroom.

"Don't even start," growled Gibbs, pounding his broken stapler again and again until a metal fixing sprang loose. "McGee!"

"I'll fix it, boss!" he cried, hurrying across the aisle. "Look, how about I buy printer paper. If I do that, will you buy the pens, Ziva? And you could refill the ink cartridge, Tony?"

"I don't take orders from you, McGoo," complained DiNozzo automatically.

"Fine. I hope you enjoy handwriting the next hundred BOLO's," retorted McGee, gingerly snapping the metal piece back into place in the stapler. "There. It should work now, boss—oops, maybe not." He scrambled after a spring that sprang loose.

"Alright, I'll refill the ink, but if we have to start reusing bullets, I'm drawing the line," threatened Tony.

"I'll have it, Gibbs, if I just slip this last pin into place," muttered McGee, returning to his boss' stapler, "I just need to—hey! Tony!" The lights flickered and went out, causing McGee to drop the office supply in alarm and drawing cries of complaint from across the building.

"Wasn't me!" denied Tony instantly. "Well, not this time."

"It's true," Ziva verified reluctantly. "He never left his seat."

"Then what caused the lights to go out? It's not a power failure, or the computers would be down," reasoned McGee.

Vance appeared on the railing of the upper story, bearing a powerful spotlight. "Do not worry!" he boomed across the squadroom. "Since this is officially closing time, we have decided to turn off the lights this time each day. If you wish to stay late, you must provide your own lighting." That said, he hastily ducked back into his office, as an angry babble rose from the room.

"So this is when normal people leave their jobs!" commented Tony wonderingly. "After all these years of working late, I'd forgotten. I always wondered what having a normal schedule would be like."

"You're not getting out of work that easily, DiNozzo," barked Gibbs. "McGee—"

"Fetching flashlights from our gear, boss," completed McGee, waving his cellphone for illumination as he worked his way across the room. He swore under his breath as he knocked heads with another agent fumbling her way across the room. This was getting ridiculous.

Believe it or not, things grew worse.

The coffee machine was next to go. After one evening when Ziva, Tony, and McGee used it to brew three cups—three cups each, that is—it overheated. After several futile petitions for a new one and two torturous caffeine-deprived days, they passed a hat around the squadroom to repair it. Then the powers-that-be quit replacing shooting targets.

"I'm sure you can all tell which bullet holes are new, and which are from the previous user," Vance said, his face impassive as he examined the bullet-riddled target dummies. That was fine after two or three uses, but it became harder to tell how well you had done after the your target was hanging in shreds.

Travel expense reports became so tightly monitored that trips essentially became paid vacation. Their monthly allotment of money for gas barely got them down the block. The vending machines were completely emptied, even of the stale nutrition bars that not even Ziva regularly ate. Water fountains quit working after hours, then quit working altogether. Their already laughable government salaries were cut deeper.

"This is getting out of hand," muttered McGee, squinting at the witness statement. "I can't read a report printed on old lined paper. Hang on, did the witness see a '_large, smoking bun_,' or a '_large, smoking gun_?'"

"Yes, we're now investigating burnt pastries," drawled Tony sarcastically. "Of course he saw a gun, McGeek." Tempers had grown short that morning, when the air conditioning had been turned off to save electricity costs. Apparently, 85 degrees wasn't considered hot enough for AC.

DiNozzo returned to the memo he was writing. To avoid using printer paper and ink, interoffice memos were now being written by hand. The insanity of the whole situation struck him, and all at once he was so annoyed, he pressed his pencil deep into the paper. Naturally, the tip snapped.

"Ziva?" he called. She glance up and assessed the situation immediately.

"Toss it over, Tony," she sighed wearily, and he flicked the pencil across the aisle. Unsheathing her knife, she patiently began shaving peals of wood from the point, sharpening the pencil the old fashioned way. The pencil sharpener had been one of the first casualties in the budget war.

"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I actually kind of envy Palmer," McGee commented, fanning himself lazily with one hand. Everyone was sweating heavily with the AC off.

"Autopsy Gremlin? What are you envious of, the fact that he's only person dorkier than you on the team?" Tony asked, aiming a battery powered fan at his face.

"No, his workplace. I caught him taking his coffee break in an Autopsy freezer," McGee explained. The others gave twin sighs of longing.

"Abby's lab is almost as cool," reported Ziva. "She's plugged in—how many fans did we count?"

"Eleven," confirmed Tony. "Officially, the policy is against plugging in any 'non-essential' electronics, but she has it cued to a remote that she clicks off whenever she hears someone coming."

"Abby can get away with anything," said McGee admiringly, shaking his head.

"I wish I could," grumbled Ziva. "Did you know I got chewed out this morning for using the elevator? Apparently, it was an 'unnecessary use of power!'"

"I got audited for charging NCIS for the hotel bill for the third night I spent in Albany, following up on that lead. Apparently, I could have driven back that night!" McGee related.

"Ducky said they were reusing rubber gloves in the duck pond," Tony informed them, "since their supplies budget was so low."

"This is getting ridiculous!" Ziva spat, tossing Tony his pencil and driving her pocketknife into the surface of her desk. They jumped as the knife gouged a sliver of wood out of the desk. "We need to do something. This budget situation is insane. Insane! We could blackmail the Director—or McGee could hack a Swiss bank account—or maybe—"

"Or _maybe_," said Gibbs pointedly, striding into the bullpen, "we could just fire one of you."

They exchanged quick glances.

"Or we could get used to reusing shooting targets!"

"And reusing gloves! And evidence bags! Anything, really—"

"We can pay for gas. And office supplies and hotel rooms and—we'll pay for everything!"

"Budget cuts, smudget cuts!"


	23. Lies

Sometimes, the team has to lie.

Never to each other. Well, rarely to each other. After all, they could usually tell when each other were lying. Mostly, the sad but necessary deceptions occur when working with outsiders.

Once, in an undercover assignment gone wrong, a crazy firefight broke out. A rookie, temporarily assigned to Gibbs' team for a special consultation, was caught in the middle. Bullets flew; people died; things happened. The final death count? Four baddies . . . and one undercover cop. The situation had been out of control, and the undercover cop had broken regulations in a bad way—if the rookie had shot the cop, it wouldn't have been the rookie's fault, morally or legally. Even so, the rookie hovered in Abby's lab as the ballistics came. He was so anxious that Abby even broke her normal rule about outsiders in her lab. Then the results popped up—without a doubt, the rookie's bullet had been the one that killed the undercover cop.

"The results came back negative. It was the baddies' bullets that finished him off," she announced, hiding the results on her screen—she would make sure the final report was accurate but discreet. The watching teammates exchanged amused glances. They knew she was lying. She glared at them, and they winked, 'zipped their lips,' or nodded, depending on their temperament. The rookie, on the other hand, glowed in relief and went home for the first time in several days.

The family of the undercover cop insisted on seeing him in autopsy. Ducky didn't recommend it—after all, the rookie's bullet had been only one out of half a dozen that riddled his body. But they argued, so Ducky unwilling revealed the poor man's head only. The family was horrified. The rookie's kill shot had destroyed half the cop's skull. Anxiously, the family wanted to know if this meant it was quick. Surely, a wound that brutal would mean a swift and painless death. Ducky imagined telling the mourning family the nature of their poor son's death—the other five bullets that pierced him, the slow agony he lay in for minutes before the rookie's bullet found his brain, the almost merciful nature of that final shot.

"Absolutely painless. Over in a second," he agreed firmly. The mother broke down weeping in relief; the father's brow relaxed, a huge weight off his shoulders; the girlfriend collapsed into a chair a look of exquisite relief on her face. Once more, the team realized Ducky was lying, silently agreed to not to share this.

The dead cop's girlfriend blew into the squadroom in a blind panic. She had heard that the her boyfriend was dead. She wanted to see him. No, she _insisted _on seeing him. Gibbs had Ziva guide her downstairs. In the elevator, though, Ziva noticed another family coming up from Autopsy. Another family _including_ a girlfriend. Ziva wondered . . . a few subtle questions out of the departing family's earshot revealed a painful detail though; this was his undercover girlfriend. She thought he had been killed in a gang fight. The grieving girl had no idea that her boyfriend hadn't been who he claimed. She didn't even know his family. Ziva remembered her feeling of betrayal over Rivkin.

"He was just an innocent bystander," she announced. "Your boyfriend had nothing to do with the fight." And the girlfriend departed, her rosy memories of her boyfriend intact, her heart aching but not broken. Ducky raised an eyebrow and whispered that she was soft at heart, prompting Ziva to make a halfhearted threat involving knives if any ever found out that she had lied to protect the girl's feelings.

Later that day, McGee lied to Vance about how he obtained his intel. Absolutely no hacking involved, no sir, no hacking whatsoever! He wasn't just protecting his own butt, but also the others who knew about his hacking. His teammates backed him up. Tony, straight faced, told the rookie that nobody thought less of him for accidentally shooting the cop. The other agents chimed in with their support. In reality, they knew the rookie was very lucky that Abby didn't tell anyone outside the team about the fatal shot.

Then the family of the dead undercover cop accosted Gibbs by the elevator. They asked, frantically, if the rumors they had heard were true. Had their fallen relative broken protocol? Was it his own stupidity that had gotten him killed? _Was it his fault_?

"That man was a hero," said Gibbs simply, which may have been a lie, and maybe not. For once, the team couldn't tell.

Gibbs wasn't sure himself.


	24. Fumigation

"Urgh, I can't believe that the poor girl fell for that old trick," sighed Ziva, staring regretfully at old graduation photos of a victim. "Her boyfriend charmed his way into moving in by claiming his house was being fumigated? Really? What's wrong with hotel rooms?"

"You moved in with Abby for that reason," pointed out Tony.

"No, I stayed overnight at Abby's," corrected Ziva. "And she _volunteered_. I did not come knocking at her door!"

"What? You're saying that my apartment was flooded, you wouldn't let me crash at your place?" McGee inquired indignantly.

"Of course I would, McGee," Ziva disagreed, "but that's . . . different. Somehow."

"How?" asked McGee.

"Well—you are _McGee_," said Ziva, gesturing helplessly. "You are not some sleazy boyfriend. I'd do the same for Abby or Ducky or any of my teammates—well, maybe not Tony—"

"_Hey!_"

"—but I don't think we need to worry about that. You know that Gibbs works us really hard with cases involving young women—"

"Correction: he works us really hard with every case," muttered Tony, drawing an irritated glare from Ziva.

"—so I doubt you'd even notice if your apartment was being fumigated right about now," Ziva managed to finish finally.

"We're not even going to _see_ our homes for a few days," realized McGee regretfully.

"I'll tell you what. If your desks are ever fumigated, you are both always welcome to share the sleeping space behind my desk," offered Ziva dryly. They considered this for a second.

"Deal," they said, and smiled grimly as they set to work.

**(A/N: Not entirely pleased with the end. Suggestions for improvement are welcome.)**


	25. Ouch

"What the hell are you doing here, McGee?" Tony demanded, pulling up short to see his teammate sitting at his desk.

"Well, it _is_ my job, Tony," said McGee shortly.

"But—you just got beat up _yesterday_! Shouldn't you be taking the day off?" Tony asked.

"Precisely what I said, McGee," muttered Ziva from across the aisle, shaking her head disapprovingly. "You both got the crap beaten out of you by a band of vengeful drug dealers. Let Gibbs and I track the bastards down and beat the crap out of _them—_you should take it easy for a day or two."

"Yeah, but Tony got beaten up just as badly," complained McGee.

"So?" Tony squawked.

"So, you're here, aren't you?" questioned McGee.

"That's different. _I _have a higher pain tolerance than you, McGeek," retorted Tony, gesturing dramatically. "My injuries no longer bother me. I'm like the Terminator—I feel no pain—"

"Oh really?" asked McGee. "No pain, huh?" Grinning, he leaned over and gave Tony a casual headslap—prompting both agents to collapse back into their chairs, doubling over in pain.

"_Ahhh _. . . . oh, _God_, my hand . . . . " McGee cradled his stinging hand.

"Forget your hand, my head—it aches_—oh!_" gasped Tony, clutching faintly at his head.

"Damn, that was the stupidest thing we ever did," wheezed McGee, flexing his fingers and wincing in pain.

"No crap, Sherlock," groaned Tony. He leaned over to dispense a slap of his own, only to cause both of them to crumple up in agony all over again.

"Correction: that was the stupidest thing we ever did," moaned McGee, rubbing the back of his throbbing head.

Gibbs entered the bullpen, and spotted the two downed agents. "Were you attacked again? Are you hurt?" he demanded, his hand shifting to his gun.

"No, boss, they managed to do that to each other with headslaps," Ziva informed him coolly, rolling her eyes. Gibbs surveyed his battered agents.

"Home, now," he ordered in a tone that allowed no argument. They tried, anyway.

"But boss—a little pain never hurt anyone really—"

"Honestly, I'm fine unless I move, or, you know, _breath_, or—ah, _God_, gesturing hurts—but really, we're fine— "

"Now, or I headslap both of you!" he roared.

They scattered.

(**A/N: Not my best work. I just couldn't get it to click. Well, it was funny in my head . . .)**


	26. First Dates

**(A/N: Four times Tony's job screws up his dates, one time it doesn't. Adapted a collection of bad first dates. A canonical portion of Tiva.)**

"She was just—such a strong woman, you know?" Tony muttered, staring blankly into his glass. He sighed deeply, taking another long slug from his drink. "So . . . different. Not like any other woman I had ever met. She refused to flirt, never let me win her over by charm. She never used charm to get her way, either. That girl, she always fought for her place in the world." He swirled his glass idly. "Never relied on her looks. She earned every honor she got."

He sighed again and took another long swig.

"I just miss her so much, you know?"

"Yeah, your ex-girlfriend sounds like a real stunner," his date said impatiently, twirling her foot in bored circles. "But can we talk about something else? You've been going on about her for a half hour." She leaned in flirtatiously, dropping her hand to his shoulder. "I'm sure I can . . . distract you."

He grabbed her hand from his shoulder and clung to it as if for comfort. "My ex-girlfriend?" he asked, confused. "I wasn't talking about a girlfriend." He downed the rest of his drink, grimaced, and waved for another. "Kate was my partner."

"Okay, she was your 'life partner,' girlfriend, whatever you want to call it—isn't there _anything_ else we can talk about?" she snapped, flirtation abandoned, but Tony returned to staring into his new glass.

"We always bickered. I hope she knew how much I enjoyed it. I never got a chance to tell her . . ."

Letting a growl of frustration escape, his date grabbed her purse and stalked out. Tony barely noticed.

""

He was midway through a charming story about a college football game when he saw it.

Bearing down on him, their faces wreathed in identical grins of mischief, Ziva, McGee and Abby descended.

They were chattering cheerfully among themselves, not watching him outright, but definitely heading towards his table. He stuttered, brought his story to an awkward close, and hid his face in the menu on the off chance that their presence was a coincidence.

It wasn't.

Their arrival at his table was heralded by loud, fake exclamations of shock that "you're here!" and they had "no idea that you were coming," and the inevitable:

"Why don't we join you?"

Of course, then he had to explain to his date that _yes_, he actually knew these people, _in fact_, these people were his co-workers, and _no_, he didn't have any objection to letting them sit at his table. His words of welcome were somewhat belied by the looks of mixed terror and anger he was shooting his co-workers.

"So, did Tony tell you about the time he . . ." his three friends began in frightening synchrony, then broke off with a laugh and a smirk.

"Oh, you first," they chortled, and launched into a rendition of every humiliating, painful, or otherwise unsuitable tale of Tony's exploits they could find. Such was the practiced and thorough nature of the stories that they could only be pre-prepared.

". . . so the only way to get the smuggled drugs out of the horse was to actually reach up the horse's—"

"Alright, Abby, I think that's all my date needs to hear," said Tony sharply, kicking the Goth under the table. She squealed and kicked him back, harder—and she was wearing her chunky boots, too. "You know what? If you'll excuse us, I think my co-workers and I need to have a little talk . . . in private," gasped Tony, grimacing as he put weight on his kicked leg.

Tony demonstrated a great deal of restraint. He waited until he had towed his sniggering colleagues out of earshot of his date before he opened his mouth.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "You're destroying my date. What did I do to you?"

They started to babble over on another. Tony held up a hand to stop them.

"Correction: what have I done recently?" he clarified.

"Well, I'm here because I finally figured out why my last boyfriend dumped me after two weeks," contributed Abby. "Apparently, your warning about what would happen if he hurt me scared him so badly he cut and ran."

"Oh, come on," protested Tony weakly, "at least I didn't sic Gibbs on him—"

"And I'm here because I found out you ran a background check on my boyfriend, trying to dig up soil on him," cut in Ziva. "Which you had _no right to do._"

"The expression is 'dig up dirt,' and that is not why I ran the check—" argued Tony, but McGee had already launched into his complaint.

"Tony, you sent pictures of me in an Elf Lord costume to my girlfriend," wailed McGee. "That. Is. Not. Okay."

Tony drew breath to defend this last point, then blew it out in a sigh. "Okay. The last one was on me," he admitted. "Let's just get this over with."

And with that, the four friends turned and marched back to where the unsuspecting date sat.

""

". . . so then _I_ said, 'that's what you think,' and walked out! Isn't that hilarious?" his date cried, giggling at her story.

"Mm? Oh. Yeah, hilarious," agreed Tony politely. In the two weeks since Ziva left for Israel, he had already gone on three blind dates, each more disastrous than the last. For some reason, he was finding it hard to focus on his date.

His date's smile flagged. "And then an elephant fell through the ceiling and crushed him."

"Ah. Very nice." Tony wondered whether Ziva was meeting her new partner at this very minute.

"Then it began raining cheese, and a gigantic mouse attacked me."

"Mm-hm? Lovely." Tony wondered if Ziva's new partner would be male or female.

"And the floor turned into cotton candy, and the first sign of the Apocalypse occurred, and . . . you're _really_ not listening, are you?"

He started guiltily, midway through imagining Ziva working with her new partner, who had begun to resemble an Israeli James Bond in his mind's eye. "What? Oh—no, I'm listening," he denied hastily.

She sighed, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, and tossed some bills on the table. "Look, why don't we just end this here," she suggested, not unkindly, while she rose. "Clearly, I'm boring you to tears."

That got his attention for the first time that night. "Oh, you're not boring—"

"And yet, I've been talking about elephants, showers of cheese, and the Apocalypse for the past few minutes, and you didn't notice," she pointed out dryly, starting to rise. He grabbed her arm to stop her.

"It's not your fault! I was absorbed in something else, but I swear, she—_it's_ not important. I'm over her." His date raised an eyebrow. "It. I'm over it. You have my full attention now, I swear. There was just something distracting me."

"Something, or some_one_?" questioned his date perceptively. "Listen, I know what you're going through."

"You do?" Tony was startled.

"Absolutely. We've all been there. Lemme guess. Awful break-up? Girlfriend of many years walks out of your life unexpectedly? You try to bury your loss by going on endless blind dates, but you just can't stop thinking about her?"

"_Break-up_?" Tony squawked. "No, that's not it at all—"

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Honey, you're still stuck on her. Trust me. You're never getting over this girl," counseled his date firmly. She pushed in her chair. "Do yourself a favor. Don't let her go," she suggested, leaving Tony staring at her retreating back in confusion.

""

"You want to reschedule?"

"I'm sorry, something just came up at work . . ."

"Correction: you want to reschedule _again_?"

"I can't control when my boss makes me work overtime, you know." Tony shifted his cellphone so it was wedged more comfortably between his shoulder and ear. Normally, he loathed people who talked while driving, but he found his busy work schedule made it increasingly necessary to arrange social calls around his job. And, in total honesty, the cancellation call had been something of an afterthought while he was already driving to the witness' house.

"You know, you could have just told me you didn't want to go out with me," spat his date, her voice crackling through the line.

"I do want to go out with you! Really, I do!" cried Tony, honestly. He had been delighted when the attractive woman at his coffee shop had actually used the number he had slipped her. "I told you, my job keeps me busy."

"Tony, it's seven o'clock on a Friday night. There's no way you're working,"

"Clearly, you've never met my boss," quipped Tony.

"Six."

"What?"

"Six. It's the number of times you've postponed our first date for _work_."

"Look, I swear, my boss really is making us major overtime . . ."

"Sure. Just like he made you miss our lunch last _Saturday_, or the coffee we were going to grab last _Sunday_." Her voice dripped sarcasm.

"As strange as it sounds, I really _do_ work most weekends . . . and nights . . . and early mornings . . . and—"

"You know what? Just forget it. Forget you even gave me your number, alright?" she hissed, and the call dissolved into a burst of static.

Tony snapped his phone shut and tucked it into his pocket. _Wow. I managed to screw up my first date before it even started_, he reflected regretfully. _That's a record. Even for me._

""

"Ziva, what the _hell_ are you doing here?" hissed Tony, glaring at the former assassin at his door. "It's Friday night, the case was wrapped up hours ago, and I have a new girl over for dinner."

"That explains why you weren't answering your phone and I had to come all the way here. The girl will just have to wait," Ziva informed him unsympathetically. "McGee tracked down our suspect's bank accounts on a hunch, and it turns out he doesn't have the money or the connections to pull off this money laundering scheme. He was telling the truth, and we're back to circle one."

"Square one, Ziva," he corrected absently, "and I repeat, _what the hell_? The money laundering has been stopped. Does Gibbs really expect us to drop everything just to track down a handful of amateur white collar criminals who aren't going anywhere?"

"Did you really hope otherwise?" she asked, laughing madly. Tony made a face.

"Okay, I deserved that. Stupid question," he sighed, pulling on his sweatshirt. "Damn, I hate missing dinner. Should I wear my jacket?"

"With two layers on already? You'd look like a homeless man. Don't worry about food, I'm treating to Chinese food," she said coaxingly, and his expression softened slightly.

"Thanks. I'll come as soon as I can ditch my date," he told her, and turned, only to find that said date had snuck up on him unawares. "Oops! Well, I guess you heard most of that."

"Oh, I heard you, alright," she snarled, with such venom Tony recoiled. "You're just 'ditching' me so you can grab Chinese food with Ms. Date Crasher here."

"Listen, there is _nothing_ romantic between Ziva and I," Tony clarified hastily.

"Oh, _sure_. A well-dressed lady, who shows up at your apartment on a _Friday_—"

"I swear, this is work related—"

"—knows where you _live_, invites you out for _dinner_, offers you _fashion tips—_"

"I know this looks bad, but she's just a co-worker, honest—"

"—is number _two_ on your speed dial—"

"Honestly, we—hang on, how did you know what number speed dial she was on? Did you look at my phone while I was out of the room?" gasped Tony, momentarily sidetracked. She didn't even answer, just shoved past him and stalked out the door, deliberately bumping Ziva on the way out. Tony had to grab Ziva's arm to stop the female agent from shoving her back considerable harder.

It took six hours and a great deal of coffee before the whole messy case was sorted out. By midnight, they had discovered that one of the original suspect's co-workers had used the suspect's computer to run his laundering scheme, but it wasn't until two-thirty that they narrowed the broad range of possibilities down to a short list, and picking the precise perpetrator didn't occur until six in the morning. Abby and McGee, who had done the brunt of the computer work, staggered home to their respective apartments in that peculiar limbo that exists only between exhaustion and a caffeine high. The indefatigable Gibbs disappeared into Vance's office to justify the legal corners they had cut. Ducky and Jimmy had disappeared around midnight, once the body had been processed. Only Tony and Ziva were left in the bullpen.

"Wanna finish the cold Chinese food while I summon the energy to stagger home?" suggested Tony, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"That's sound utterly disgusting . . . but weirdly appealing. I claim that weird vegetable rice dish," agreed Ziva, wearily propelling her swivel chair to Tony's desk, where the congealing, cooled food was arrayed.

She expertly pinched a chunk of mystery vegetable between a pair of chopsticks, and began relating a funny story of how they surprised their perp when he showed up at work. Tony, who hadn't come along for the arrest, listened attentively while using a fork to shovel down fried rice. She mocked him for his inability to use chopsticks; he corrected her confused idioms; she flicked a gob of slimy rice at him; he deflected with a container of General Tso's and returned fire; they both fell into the borderline hysterical laughter that could only be generated by a dangerous mix of caffeine, severe sleep deprivation, and truly godawful Chinese food.

Upon reflection, Tony didn't really mind that his first date had been brought to such a catastrophic ending.

In all honesty, this was better anyway.


	27. Eep

Gibbs sipped his coffee.

Across the desk, the man shifted uncomfortably. When Abby told her boyfriend she was introducing him to Gibbs, she did so with so much ceremony, one would think he was about to meet the parents. He had passed Abby's teammates on the way in, and their responses had varied from "Good luck!" to "We'll come in and mop up the remains once he's through with you." Abby's last words before the elevator doors opened had been, "Don't worry, he won't actually kill you. I think." He had sat down across from the man, expecting an interrogation, threat, or—_at this point, who knew?_—a challenge to a duel. Instead he just sat there. And _stared_. Dear God, why did he even carry a gun? That stare alone could stop a criminal cold. Wildly, he wondered if Abby had always been so endearingly odd, or if prolonged proximity to this man had caused it.

Finally, Gibbs opened his mouth. "I'm a trained sniper."

Gibbs glare seemed to be drilling into his skull. The man's panicked mind generated two wild replies: "Congratulations!" and "Ahhh." These got tangled on the way to his mouth, which spat a weak . . .

"_Eeep . . ._"

Gibbs sipped his coffee.


	28. Nah

**(A/N: The '''' represent the shift from present to flashback, and back again.)**

"Do you think your teammates know that you're on a secret assignment for SecNav?" asked Jarvis, tapping the golf ball into the hole with an easy putt.

"Well . . ." Tony cast his mind back to the conversation he had the previous day.

''''

"We know you're on a secret assignment for SecNav," said McGee flatly.

Tony paused just inside Autopsy, the automatic doors swishing shut behind him as he scanned the grim line Abby, Ducky, McGee and Ziva had formed in front of one of the metal tables.

"I take it this isn't about the Autopsy report," he said slowly. Ducky shook his head.

"Actually, I have it here," he said, slapping a thin folder down on the table. "Gibbs' gut was correct. The petty officer's accident was just that—an accident. But Antony, my boy, that was not the purpose of us calling you down here."

"We need to talk about your special SecNav assignment," said Abby. "You're lying to family, and I don't like it."

"There is no assignment," said Tony cautiously.

"Oh, come on!" The new voice came from behind him, and Tony turned to see Palmer standing in the doorway, a box of files in his arms. "_I_ know about the secret assignment, and I'm the Autopsy Gremlin."

Tony frowned. "You're not supposed to enjoy your nickname, Gremlin," he grumbled. "Now I need to come up with a new one."

"And you're really not supposed know that Tony is working with SecNav," said Ducky, frowning as he relieved the assistant Medical Examiner of his box. Ducky had hoped that his pointless errand would keep Palmer occupied longer. "It's a rather delicate matter."

Palmer eye's flicked from unsmiling face to unsmiling face, and realized this was no longer a topic for entertaining speculation. "I think I ought to go be . . . somewhere else," he suggested unsteadily.

"I think that's a good idea," said Ducky, and Palmer disappeared out the doors. "There's no need to get him wrapped up in this," Ducky added to the others as the doors swished shut. Tony shifted uncomfortably.

"There is nothing to get wrapped up in. And if there were, I couldn't talk about it," said Tony

Ziva spoke up for the first time. "We're not asking you to tell us about it," she said firmly. "We know you can't do that."

"We just want you to know that we know," McGee added. "And that we're here to help."

Abby nodded eagerly.

"You can ask us for favors if you need them. Like, you don't even have to explain why you need them, or what's going on. Just tell us you need help, and we will," said Abby hopefully.

"I hope my services will not be necessary, Antony," said Ducky grimly. "But I will provide them if necessary."

They all nodded seriously. Tony knew they weren't joking. At a word from him, they would drop everything to help him on his assignment, without asking a single question. Still, officially speaking . . .

"You have no idea I'm on a secret assignment for SecNav," he said firmly, knowing that they would understand that this was closest he could come to thanking them for this generous gesture.

''''

"Nah . . . they had no idea that I'm on a secret assignment for SecNav," Tony told Secretary Jarvis cheerfully, lining up his next shot. He swung and connected cleanly. A hole in one.


	29. Sickly

**(A/N: Many, many fanfiction writers have run with the idea of Gibbs taking care of Tony when he's sick. Here's my response.)**

When the three field agents rounded the corner to the bullpen, Gibbs could have sworn their gulps could be heard in the director's office.

"That's . . . quite a bit of paperwork, boss" noted Tony weakly. He was understating the situation more than a little. The towering stacks of paper on their desks nearly topped the dividers.

"Better start now then," Gibbs replied, sipping his coffee. His own desk was clear of the mountains of forms.

"Actually, I, uh, need to be . . . somewhere else," mumbled McGee, backing away. "Labby's ab. I mean, Abby's lab. I need to be—helping Abby. In her lab."

Gibbs' eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"She needs my help with . . . converting the gigabytes into RAM and disguising them in a Boolean operator to slip past the firewall," said McGee wildly, before breaking and sprinting for the stairs. The wind of his passing sent a few sheaves of notes drifting to the ground.

"I, ah . . . also need to be somewhere else," added Ziva. "The director has personally requested that I . . . go somewhere else. Not here."

"Director suggested that personally, huh?"

"Absolutely!" She nodded repeatedly. "Those were his exact words."

Gibbs gave her a glare.

"Do you hear McGee calling for help? I hear him calling for help," said Ziva desperately. "I'll go help him. Somewhere else."

She, too, broke for the door, stirring up a miniature tornado of papers in her wake.

"Eh, boss, I'm not feeling so good," said Tony hopelessly, recoiling from a drifting form like it carried the plague. "I must becoming down with a serious case of . . . papertosis. I think I'd better take a sick day . . ."

"Can ya still _walk_, DiNozzo?"

"Yes, boss."

"Still _write_, DiNozzo?"

"'Course, boss."

"Can ya still _shoot_, DiNozzo?" asked Gibbs, pointedly resting his hand on the butt of his gun. "Because I know I still can."

"I'll just get to work, shall I?"


	30. Tiva

**(A/N: Last chapter I put my own spin on the prompt many authors run with—Gibbs caring for a sick Tony. Now, onto the next overused NCIS fanfic topic: a contrived excuse forces Ziva and Tony to share a room, generating instant Tiva.)**

At first, none of them complained about staying at a safe house.

Ideally, they would have checked into a hotel, but it was prime tourist season in Miami, and they had made the trip last minute. It wasn't like they could schedule a shooting spree at a Marine base in advance. It wasn't like they could anticipate the tragedy that had summoned all NCIS field agents in a hundred miles to the steamy tourist trap. It wasn't like they could _prepare_ for the loss of six Marines as easily as people prepared hotel reservations.

So at first, they didn't complain when the director arranged for them to stay at a safehouse. Not even when they realized that, in blatant defiance of zoning laws, their next door neighbor was a nightclub—in fact, Tony was pleased, at least until he noticed the look on the boss' face. Not even when they when they noticed the air conditioning was broken, and the temperatures were hitting record highs. Not even when Tony came running from the kitchen, screeching about rats.

No, not even then. But when they went upstairs and discovered precisely three bedrooms—well, they just couldn't help themselves.

"_Three_ bedrooms?" said McGee tremulously. "_Three_? Is NCIS capable of simple math? Four of us. Three rooms. _Three!_"

"I don't think your sleeping arrangements were high on NCIS' list of concerns, McGee," growled Gibbs, marching off, in bad temperament ever since he heard about the shooting.

"Two bedrooms, you mean, unless you intend to bunk down with the boss," said Tony in a low voice, once Gibbs was out of earshot in his own room.

They considered for a second, then shuddered in unison.

"Ooh, look, a flatscreen," added Tony, wandering into the first of the remaining bedrooms. The door swung open to reveal an oversized bed, which Tony promptly flopped upon. Ziva and McGee considered the remaining bedroom, with its tiny bed, and twin looks of horror spread across their faces.

"I am not sleeping with Tony!" they blurted out in unison, bolting for the remaining room. McGee got through the door first, but Ziva elbowed him out of the way and flung herself onto the bed.

"Said it!" she cried, clutching the bed-frame. "I said it!"

"You claimed it, Ziva," corrected McGee, "and please, please, please don't make me sleep with _him_." He jerked his thumb at DiNozzo's room.

From the other room, they could hear a faint, "_Indiana Jones marathon! Score!_" and both teammates shuddered.

"Be a gentleman! Let me have the single bed!"

"Be a human being! Do not make me share a bed with Tony!" McGee drew a deep breath. "Okay, Ziva. This bed isn't that small. We're two mature adults, and we can surely share—" He broke off as Ziva began idly picking dirt out from under her nails with a very sharp knife. "I thought you stopped using your knives."

"Not _all_ of them," she said crisply, driving the the knife into the chipped headboard. McGee sighed.

"Fine." He grabbed her sheet and yanked on it. She yanked back.

"McGee!"

His eyes were slightly desperate. "You know I have to sleep on the couch, which means I _need_ this sheet. There were _springs_ sticking out of it, Ziva. _Springs_."

She sighed and relinquished his sheet. "All right. C'mon. Let's get you set up on that couch," she said wearily. "Anything to avoid sharing a bed with Tony."

"Anything," agreed McGee fervently.


	31. Ray, Redux

**(A/N: A lost scene, where Ray and Gibbs meet in private for the first time. More than a little similar to my other Ray story . . . sorry.)**

"She really looks up to you," said Ray unexpectedly, trying to make conversation. "You should hear her. Gibbs said this, Gibbs did that. Tony made this joke, McGee paid for dessert, Ducky told the funniest story, Abby bought her the cutest shoes. She goes on about you and your team quite a bit."

"David is very close to her teammates," said Gibbs briefly. Silence fell again, and Ray tried to fill it.

"She warned me about you."

"Yeah?" Gibbs raised an eyebrow. He looked more amused than insulted, but Ray hastened to amend his statement.

"I mean—she warned me that you could be quite protective. You look out for her, she said," he explained quickly. Gibbs didn't answer. "So . . . are you going to give me the protective father lecture?"

"I'm not her father," he said, taking a long sip of coffee. Ray started to relax.

"Well, that's—"

"But I'm the damn closest thing she's got on this side of the Atlantic," he growled abruptly, and Ray stiffened. "Hurt her and die."

It took Ray a split second to realize that yes, that was his entire speech, and yes, it was as terrifying as any he had ever heard.

"If I hurt her, I'll let you," he said simply.

Gibbs grinned. It was rather like watching a shark bare his teeth in preparation for a kill.

"I never said _I'd _be the one to kill you," he said. And smiled again.

**(A/N: Ack. Ended up far too close to my first Ray drabble for my liking. I feel like I should start updating again, though. Sorry.)**


	32. Changeophobia

Changeophobia, McGee called it.

Abby seemed to be the first one to catch it. EJ Barrett had been in the squadroom no more than a few hours when Abby began scratching.

"Change makes me itchy!" she wailed, cuddling Bert to her chest.

McGee had chalked it up to one of the many loveable quirks that made Abby, well, _Abby_. She bowled with nuns, mainlined caffeine, feared lab assistants—and hated change. Changeophobia. Surely the infected zone was limited to her lab.

Then it spread. McGee, nervous about his promotion, had fretfully rearranged the monitors on his desktop. And Tony and Ziva _pounced._

They hovered over him all day, pestering him with questions. He returned from the head to find Ziva prying at his desk drawer with a knife. She unapologetically explained that she needed to borrow a paper clip. McGee pointed out that she a little container of paper clips on the corner of her desk.

"Thanks, McGee," she said, unexpectedly kissing on the cheek. The moment was slightly ruined by her grunt as she tugged her knife free of his drawer.

Tony began randomly springing questions on him in the middle of a casual conversation. McGee could only imagine that Tony was hoping to catch him off guard.

"The kid has agreed to talk to us say McGee is it something to do Vance?" he asked brightly. McGee just groaned.

He didn't blame them. Change had never exactly been good to the team. Whenever the delicate equilibrium they functioned in shifted, things went askew. It was as if pure contact with NCIS turned new changes sour. New girlfriends or boyfriends that weren't already assassins, murderers, or spies invariably committed a murder or two within a month of meeting the NCIS agents. Lab assistants turned into murderers. A new team showed up, and within a month they were battling a deranged, rogue, CIA-trained assassin serial killer.

It was only natural that some superstitious part of the agents began to wonder if every change that was made to their work environment was doomed to misery or failure. Gibbs had retired, Vance had dissolved them, Ziva had . . . disappeared, yet somehow they always reformed. Eight years together, and somehow the team was still in its original form. Something nasty happened every time something or somebody tried to change that.

So it was really only natural, McGee decided, that the others would develop a strong case of changeophobia. He, of course, was above that. He wasn't afraid of change.

God forbid something ever change _that_.


	33. Ending

"It's ending, isn't it," whispered Abby sadly, staring at the smoldering wreckage, a question phrased as a statement. Gibbs gave her a stare that could have meant any number of things, so she chose to interpret it as encouragement to continue. "Us. This. The team. My family. It's over."

"NCIS won't be destroyed by the loss of a single headquarters," said Gibbs impassively.

"But we will, won't we? They'll rebuild the headquarters somewhere else. Then the team will be dissolved." Abby swiped an angry tear from her eye. "My three musketeers will be split up. Everyone's been saying what a miracle it is for an entire team to stay together for all these years. Vance keeps hinting that it isn't right for so many good, senior agents to be on one team. I know that Tony's turned down three promotions, and McGee and Ziva have probably turned down one or two each. The Director is going to take this as an excuse to divide them to form three good teams instead of one amazing team—and the worst part is, he's right. They are too good to all be working on the same team. Everyone's going to be promoted and transferred and scattered!"

"Just because you won't work together doesn't mean you'll never see them again, Abby," said Gibbs, wrapping his arms around her.

"But they'll get transferred overseas, or something—"

"Then call them," Gibbs said firmly.

"But McGee will end up an agent afloat and he'll only be allowed to call once a week, and Tony will be a team leader abroad and have to pay long distance rates every minute we talk, and Ziva will end up in some top secret undercover assignment where she's not allowed to call her old friends at all. Ducky will probably retire, and I'll be transferred to a new lab, and God only knows what you'll do," cried Abby. "And we'll say that we'll talk, we'll promise that we'll stay in contact, but we won't. It'll be like Tony and his old partner. At first, we'll be emailing and everything everyday, but then life will intercede. We'll move on. Tony will have a new team, and McGee will lead a team of computer nerds, and Ziva will be undercover so much that we'll never be allowed to talk. We'll have nothing to talk about, and end up emailing once a month and exchanging Christmas cards. I'll try to arrange visits, but one of us will have a case that comes up, and we'll have to keep canceling. We're all such workaholics, even Tony, you know that it'll be impossible to find time. Next thing you know, we'll be like those high school friends who you swore would be your best friends forever, but now you barely know them and forget their names at reunions. The last time Vance broke up the team, it was already happening by the time we reunited. I can see the future, Gibbs, I can see where this is going, and I'm afraid we're going to grow apart!" She drew a deep, shuddering breath, one of the first since she launched her rant.

"That will only happen if you let it," Gibbs promised.

"But it could happen, couldn't it?" Abby wailed.

Gibbs wasn't the sort to make promises that he couldn't keep. "It could." That was all the confirmation she needed.

"It's all ending, Gibbs!" Abby cried, horrorstruck. "My family. This team." She buried her head in her hands and began weeping fiercely. "It's all going away," she whispered.


	34. Lost Friends

**(A/N: Would you believe I wrote that last drabble about a _year_ before the finale? I think I'm psychic. _Brr_.)**

"Abby, you simply cannot go back in there. The fire had barely been put out."

"I don't care, Ziva! I have to find him!"

"He is gone. He is gone, Abby, and there is nothing you can do."

"I can't just give up on him!" Abby lunged for the still smoldering building. Ziva caught her arm and yanked her back. The lab rat burst into tears. "We've just been through so much together," she confessed weepily. "He's helped me through so many hard cases."

"I know," said Ziva gently, touching her friend's shoulder. "He helped us all through those toughest cases. But you have to accept that you cannot rescue him." She fetched out a crumpled kleenex, and swabbed tears from Abby's face. "He is gone, Abby," she said simply. "He is gone."

"But he was my oldest friend! The first one I made at NCIS. He was always there for me and he never let me down—well, except for that power outage incident . . ."

Ziva sighed. "It looks like the wreckage is cooling down in that area. Would it help if you saw what was left of him?"

Abby nodded urgently. "Oh, please," she said, immediately. "Let's—let's see the remains."

Ziva guided her friend through the smoking rubble. The two women picked their way around pockets of fire and the occasional sheeted corpse. When Abby caught sight of what remained of her friend, she let out a wail and buried her face in Ziva's shoulder.

"Do not cry," said Ziva nervously, patting her on the back. She still wasn't sure what to do with crying people. "Um, there. There. There, there. This is what you say when someone is crying, yes?"

"He just looks so _awful_ . . . with those burns, all over . . ."

"Are you sure he cannot be fixed?" said Ziva desperately.

"His insides are charred. Nobody could repair him." Abby sniffled.

"We will get a new—"

"Nobody will ever replace him," moaned Abby.

"We will get an upgrade, okay? A better MassSpec."

"THERE WILL NEVER BE A BETTER MASS SPECTROMETER THAN MAJOR MASSSPEC!" Abby shrieked.

Ziva exhaled slowly. She had the feeling this was going to take a while.


End file.
